


Information at a Price

by nostalgic_breton_girl



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: College of Winterhold - Freeform, Gen, Skyrim Main Quest, Winterhold (Elder Scrolls)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:01:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25845463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nostalgic_breton_girl/pseuds/nostalgic_breton_girl
Summary: In which Julienne goes to Winterhold in search of an Elder Scroll, and finds what she seeks, via an adventure she might rather not have had
Relationships: Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Marcurio
Comments: 3
Kudos: 7





	1. Cold Evening

‘ _This_ was the capital of Skyrim?’ said Marcurio quite incredulously.

‘A long time ago,’ said I.

The defence failed before it had begun: it had not been that long ago, and, if the extensive records were anything to go by, Winterhold had never been warm, never been the _most_ inhabitable place in the province, and the people of Skyrim had liked it that way, had liked a capital which resounded with the cold steeled power of the elements, and which they might inhabit in the belief that it made the people, too, look cold and steeled and powerful...

It had not been a long time ago, not really. But the pride of Winterhold had not lasted, had tumbled far even with the city itself, that it was not a capital which greeted us, but little more than a village, clinging to the last remnants of the land, and scarcely visible in the driving snow. I could tell that Marcurio did not believe it had ever been a bustling city. I too was going only on hearsay.

I pulled my cloak closer about me, and leapt from the coach, deftly into a snowdrift, that I did not slip; Marcurio feigned to follow me, but after adjusting his gloves a few times, pointedly, he did not seem to have moved.

‘It’s _cold_ ,’ he protested.

‘You said that,’ said I, ‘upon the Throat of the World, you complained about going up there, but you turned out all right... when you got used to it.’

‘I think that was warmer than here,’ said Marcurio: ‘the sun was out, at least.’

But the coachman was becoming impatient, desperate to be off again before dusk, back southwards, and hopefully to a decent roadside tavern and evening fire. And he was a good stocky Nord, he had fire running through his veins! I could not help but agree with Marcurio, winter in Skyrim was one thing, winter in Winterhold was quite another.

Those who believed Winterhold to be cursed, may well have been correct.

Marcurio had at last got down from the coach, and had pulled his scarf up to his chin, with some movement towards having it over his nose. I took his arm and gloved hand, tried to funnel into him what little Nordic warmth I myself possessed.

‘You’re not that cold,’ said I: ‘you will get used to it.’

‘We could just as easily have gone to the Arcane University,’ he muttered: ‘and it is the Imperial City where they keep all the Scrolls.’

‘Oh, so _that’s_ what’s bothering you,’ I said.

It was in part that we had gone to Winterhold, and not Cyrodiil, that we had gone north to the frozen wastes rather than back to sunnier climes; but it was in part because, as a former University student himself, he felt some kind of enmity towards the College of Winterhold, and did not want to be seen accepting help from them. Even if _they_ could not tell he was an Arcane alumnus – which was actually detectable from his robes, and suggested by his City accent and sunned face – it would bother _him_. 

‘We shall be fine,’ said I, beginning to doubt it; and interrupted at any rate in my thoughts by the appearance of a figure through the blizzard, by the bridge over to the College.

She was a High Elf, in College robes, and little else despite the weather; the air was crackling a little about her, and I fancied I detected some advanced use of elemental magic for personal warmth. Certainly it would be a useful spell to learn, if I might get it. – That however was not the immediate matter, for she was looking at us somewhat critically, and as we approached she said:

‘Are you looking to come in the College?’

‘If... if we may,’ I ventured.

‘On what business?’

‘Urgent business.’

‘That’s what they all say. – How urgent?’

My words dried up, in my anxiety; I exchanged glances with Marcurio, who took up my answer.

‘We’re here on urgent business related to the dragon threat. Julienne is the Dragonborn. I suggest you let her in, if nothing else.’

‘The Dragonborn!’

It was quite plain that the Altmer did not believe a word of what we had said. It was quite one thing to mention dragons, in a town which did not appear to have even glimpsed such a thing; another to claim to be some sort of great hero; and quite another for such a small unremarkable person as me to make this claim.

‘Can you prove that?’ she persisted.

‘Oh!’ said I, and my hands went to my bag –

At which Marcurio tried not to laugh, and putting a hand on my shoulder said: ‘I think she wants you to Shout.’

‘Oh!’ said I again.

I looked around, tried to focus on something other than my fluttering nerves. At last I clutched the Words which were taking shape in my mind, dwelt upon them a moment, summoned up the alien power within me, and turning to the snow-obscured town Shouted.

A breathless moment; then the heavens brightened, the clouds scudded away, and the mists of snow dissipated. Oh! the very brightness of the sky elicited a cry of astonishment from the patrolling guards, as if the heavens were ever clouded, as if they had never seen the sun before – and that, I have come to learn, is not far from the truth. To create a sunny day in Winterhold is to craft a miracle, if one believes the haggard Nords in the tavern there, and it is hard not to, on seeing their faces, on hearing their complaints running onwards like sagas...

I scattered the clouds beyond the expanse of sky above, cleared the very currents, shifted the patterns which I in my dragon-state perceived; and when it had ceased to snow, when the sun shone uninterrupted, the place was curiously pretty, and did not seem as cold.

When I turned back to the High Elf, she seemed rather less sceptical, and if nothing else overwhelmed by what I had done.

‘You’d better follow me,’ she said at last, and set off briskly across the bridge.

The city and the College differed in several respects, but the most noticeable were thus: the appearance of them, the very sight of the grey-stone College towering above ramshackle wooden houses, this age-old edifice against buildings that did not look as if they would survive the winter; and the air, for in Winterhold there was only damp and snow, with tentative notes of woodsmoke, but as soon as we neared the College, this was replaced – and strikingly – by the heady scent of magic.

Oh! I knew that scent, had perceived it among wizards; at home, with Agnete; in Marcurio’s hair, upon his robes; but I had never been so overwhelmed by it, by the sheer amount of magic in the air. This was a remarkable place, there was no denying it.

But it could equally not be denied, the College would have had a cold sort of aura even without the glistening snowdrifts. Certainly it was impressive, but the walls – like those in Windhelm – were too tall, too close, too grey. Agnete had loved Winterhold, and even she had complained about the walls. (‘Nothing like feeling you’re in some kind of mage-prison,’ she had said, and given the circumstances it was not an inaccurate description.) I wondered if I would have liked it here, hemmed in, without the liberty which exploration afforded me...

My impressions were more positive, however, than those of Marcurio, who immediately on arriving in the courtyard began to complain about the way the towers funnelled the winds, and made them biting; reminisced about the University courtyard, how it was open, and airy, how it was surrounded by gleaming white walls that had been much lower, and covered with sprawling ivy. There was little life in this courtyard, save the curious burst of magic from some kind of font, and a handful of prickly snowberry shrubs.

(I did not like Marcurio complaining about the place within earshot of the residents, but I could not help but be amused by his pride, for he had complained about the Arcane University, in its turn, on several occasions now.)

Our guide, whose name was Faralda, had determined to take us to Mirabelle Ervine – not the Arch-Mage, it seemed, but the woman who handled the majority of his business, Savos Aren himself apparently being frequently indisposed. We had not mentioned the purpose of our being here, only that what we were doing was important. And so to Mirabelle, and hopefully the answers which we so desperately needed: it did not matter what Winterhold was like, only that we found within it some way of saving Skyrim.

Mirabelle Ervine was eventually located in the Hall of the Elements. The latter had as its centrepiece a remarkable pillar of magic, which gave out an ethereal light, and rebounded off the many surrounding windows; the former was small and no-nonsense, and did not seem at all like what I had expected a Winterhold wizard to be like.

‘Evening, Faralda,’ she said, addressing the Altmer, but looking at us, the visitors.

‘Evening, Mirabelle,’ she returned, and introduced us, making a particular statement of my title as Dragonborn.

‘The Dragonborn!’ said Mirabelle, with renewed interest: ‘was that what the Shout was? – We were wondering. – I had heard you were a Breton and a mage; I thought it too good to be true; it is good to be able to meet you.’

She was the first to comment favourably upon the Dragonborn being a Breton mage, and I was immediately thankful for it, warmed to her.

‘Now,’ she said: ‘what might we help you with?’

‘We...’ The question was beyond what she might have expected. ‘We wanted to ask... we were told that the College might know where to find a... an Elder Scroll.’

‘An Elder Scroll?...’

She stared first at me, and then at Marcurio, took in our earnest faces.

‘Well! that’s not a request I believe we have... ever had before. I’m not sure I even know too much about the Elder Scrolls. Urag has one or two books _about_ them, I don’t know if he would let you read them...’

She looked between us again, as if the whole thing were some elaborate joke.

‘Any information is good information,’ said Marcurio: ‘it’s more than we have already.’

‘I think you had better speak to Urag,’ she decided, and straightening bade us follow her.

The room above the Hall of the Elements was known as the Arcaneum, and was the largest repository of magical knowledge outside of the Imperial City, as Mirabelle was proud to inform us. This was their crown jewel, I had known that already, Agnete had spoken fondly of it. I expected Marcurio to say something about the library at the Arcane University, but even he seemed a little awestruck by the place, by the way the bookshelves so entirely surrounded us, and rose to the ceilings; by the shimmering blue light in which the reader pursued their study. Oh! the Arcane University may have been spectacular, but it was conventionally so: the College was _enthralling_.

Urag gro-Shub, by his full name, was the librarian there – quite the picture of his work, as stately and almost as dusty as the books which he guarded – and it was to him which Mirabelle introduced us.

‘These visitors have made an enquiry about the Elder Scrolls,’ she explained, ‘and I directed them to you, as the one who is likely to know the most about them.’

‘The Elder Scrolls...’

‘We are looking for one,’ Marcurio put in.

‘At Winterhold!... you’d do better looking in Cyrodiil, I imagine.’

‘Well, if we do not find a Scroll, we might at least see some information about them,’ said I, made nervous by the incredulous furrow in his brow. ‘This... this Scroll has a connexion with Skyrim, and...’

‘And we thought we’d start here,’ finished Marcurio.

‘In answer to your first question,’ the librarian said gruffly: ‘we do not have any actual Elder Scrolls here. And even if we did, they’d be under the highest security – I wouldn’t let just anyone see them –’

‘Not even the Dragonborn?’ put in Marcurio.

‘Not even the Dragonborn.’

‘But you have information, at least,’ I persisted.

‘Oh, I have _information_ , if that’ll be sufficient,’ said Urag: ‘let’s think, I have Septimus’s book...’

He tapped his pen on the desk, and, wincing a little, stood; he gestured for us to take a seat, and went off in search of the books.

‘I think you’ll find,’ said Mirabelle, in a quiet amused voice, ‘that many people here care not for the Dragonborn, or the dragons, or any of the legends, beyond what scholarly interest they might find in them. I hope you are not offended.’

‘Oh! no,’ said I, quite truthfully.

Really there was something comforting in it, in the sense that the world might end, and the College students would not care for the walls collapsing about them. There was something comforting in the thought of isolating oneself thus from the tribulations of the world, caring not about titles, or glories, only the pursuit of knowledge...

If only the walls were not so high!...

When Urag returned – his hands having darted over the shelves, his mind buzzing with a cataloguing system likely only he could interpret – it was clutching two books, which he divided between us. They were both by Imperials whose names I did not recognise, one of them the Septimus whom the librarian had mentioned. I assumed them both to be scholars from the City, perhaps even Moth Priests, and thanked him.

‘And be careful with them,’ he said: ‘it’ll be out of your pocket, if they’re damaged – these are rare books indeed, almost irreplaceable. But they’re the most –’

What superlative the books might have been, we did not find out. He had not finished speaking, when he was startled from his words by a noise, and a shuddering. A noise – like a thousand winds, a roar of thunder; a shuddering, which wracked the walls; gods, I knew that sound, that trembling in the very foundations –

And most significantly, there came a shout from the courtyard: a shout of _Dragon!_...


	2. Assault on Winterhold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Julienne helps the people of Winterhold fights a dragon, and bemoans the fact that such a fight is fast becoming routine

Marcurio and I had recognised the sound, and had already stood before the cry; at this signal, we cast the books onto the table – to Urag’s horror – and ran to the window. We discerned nothing through the frosted glass, not even a silhouette, but there were more footsteps now, footsteps upstairs, and below, and by the Divines, we had to see what was happening –

We clattered down the stairs, and found Mirabelle and Faralda already outside: the two were staring up at the sky in disbelief, but with readied hands.

‘We heard something about a dragon –’ said Marcurio.

‘Then you heard right,’ said Mirabelle: ‘I am sure that was what it was. It came low over the College, and was bound north-east. I do not know if it means to come back.’

‘Nobody is hurt?’ I asked.

‘It has not attacked yet.’

The waiting – the waiting was always the worst part. The waiting – like at the Watchtower, all those ages ago, our burning curiosity tempered by a deep-rooted uncertainty, a fear – watching the skies, imagining leathery silhouettes before every cloud, and listening, desperately, for that rendering cry. Oh! what it must be like, for those who had not seen a dragon before! who yet thought them creatures of legend...

The curiosity had spread quickly among the mages of the College, the roar had been loud enough for them all to hear: a whole host of students and scholars began to emerge from the towers, and it was all Mirabelle could do to try and get them all back inside.

‘If that’s a dragon, you’ll need all the help you can get,’ one of them protested.

‘Anyone who is handy with ranged destruction spells,’ said Mirabelle, ‘may volunteer themselves; but I do not want to put anyone in danger, I must insist that you go back inside.’

‘I should like to see a dragon,’ said another of the students.

‘I’m sure you wouldn’t, if it would be followed by your death,’ Marcurio retorted, and I endorsed him with a grim smile.

The threat was not yet real enough, and the scholars’ retreat was slow, lingering; we were starting to wonder if the dragon was not coming back – if we had imagined it, even – when there was a shout from the summit of the tower, and a man leaned over, shouted that he had seen it coming back.

‘Then make ready!’ cried Mirabelle: ‘we’ll need people on the roof – _go back inside_ , J’zargo, you have not mastered ranged spells yet – I hope the Winterhold guard will be ready, down in the town, we cannot defend the town as well as the College – you two, you must have fought dragons before?’

‘More than we might have liked,’ said Marcurio, and I grimaced.

‘I shan’t oblige you to stay outside, but –’

_But you are Dragonborn, and this, I believe, is your job._

The woman had already charmed me, and I found myself in perfect admiration of her, as with a wave of her hand and a series of concise directions she managed to organise the entire College. – If she was not Arch-Mage, then she at least well merited the title of leader, for I would surely bow to her authority in most things. – Her implied wish for me to stay outside and help did not pass me by, and at any rate, I had no intentions of abandoning the fight.

There came another thundering roar, from all directions and none, tearing the air asunder; the mages yet outside readied what spells they knew, flesh-shields and fireproofs, fledgling sparks of lightning crackling about their fingers; some went up to take rooftop duty, and it was with a pained expression that Mirabelle watched them go – did she wonder if they would survive this? did she wonder if this was a turning-point? –

The dragon made its appearance not a minute later, its shadow darker than the approaching night, and covering the courtyard, its form great and terrible, and its mouth frothing with fire. It was upon us!

‘Have at it!’ cried Mirabelle, and launched the first bolt.

They were admirable impromptu battlemages, the Winterhold lot: none of them had fought before, that much was obvious, but decades of learning magical theory is quite evidently of some use, and their tactics suggested they had already prepared before now for an assault on the College. The dragon was so startled by its reception, that it retreated high into the air again, and made for the town.

I ran unfettered to the gateway, looked beyond the bridge –

The guards were certainly readied, though whether they were _ready_ was quite another matter. When the dragon came within range, they began to shoot, and I knew what would happen, I had seen it at the Watchtower, their arrows were scarcely anything to a dragon, and only the most fortunate would penetrate its scales. Oh! but they would all be massacred –

I must do something, and quickly –

I called out to it, at once sworn enemy and kindred spirit, turned its head, and led it back. It pained me, that I might be the death of some of the fellows of Winterhold: but there would be inevitable casualties, but the houses in the village were of wood, and the soldiers’ hands must have been freezing, and by the gods, if the dragon must attack Winterhold, then let it go for the College, at least the walls were sturdy, at least lightning _worked_ against the thing.

If Mirabelle’s organisation had seemed impeccable beforehand – when there was a direct attack upon the College, then it all fell to pieces: the dragon knew it must be unpredictable to gain the upper hand, and darted to and fro, and rendered the air with bursts of flame that we scarcely parried.

And to fight a dragon, one must also be erratic: theirs is a battle to outwit, it is by sheer skill or anarchy that one wins, and of all of us I was the only one with anything close to the mind of a dragon: and not trusting myself, I settled for anarchy.

I have said that the Winterhold mages were admirable: and nothing riled them more than a threat to the very place which they called home. The cry was not – as it had been, for so many – _for Skyrim_! –it was _for Winterhold_ , and their voices were surprisingly loud. – Quite a wonder, that their most eminent librarian did not emerge and insist that they all shut up. – If Marcurio and I had experience, they had well-placed pride, and that in battle is perhaps the more effective.

I did wonder, at points, what they must have thought of me, the legendary Dragonborn, no more than any of them, with the same spells and the same demeanour: if they wondered if I had a trick up my sleeve, if I had anything which might defeat this dragon, beyond the capacities of the mortal. Oh! if I did, I should not be here! –

Our lightning – for they all followed my lead and Marcurio’s, in using shock spells against it – darted over its scales, jumped between them, and landed, in several strokes of fortune, among them; the dragon let out a most heart-wrenching cry, and cast fire into the courtyard once again. But Winterhold was a fortress, more than anything: what we might have lacked in sheer body strength, we had in the fact that the dragon stood little chance of landing in the courtyard, with our defence; its wings were almost as wide as the College, and it scarcely got beyond the towers, for they were quite well defended by whomever was up there. – I suspected a Conjuration mage, though I could not see anything, for there was a note of something upon the air that reminded me of a blacker sort of magic, of the realms beyond our own. – Whatever it took to bring down the dragon: I might attend to my private prejudices later.

And at last, as at the Western Watchtower, and at Karthspire, and in the hills beyond Kynesgrove, our sheer might managed at last to so afflict the dragon that it began to falter – as if it had been weakened immeasurably, by its sojourn in the ground. It had attacked the College, again, and again, and had failed; we had scarcely suffered, had put up shields and wards, had relied upon the magic humming in the very air; and seeing that it might have more luck with the guards, and their meagre arrows, it meandered westwards.

The village was scarcely worth destroying, but if it might have a victory, before its demise –

And I forgot myself, once again: fled down, nearly lost my footing upon the ice, and though my magicka was failing, I drew upon it like nothing before, and cast at it the strength of a thunderstorm.

That did it: weakened it, at least, to the point that the Winterhold guard might have at it, and go at its head and its wings with their swords: might keep it on the ground, and there destroy it utterly. – Which they did, and I assisted, and with the dragon incapacitated at long last, it was not difficult to kill it.

 _Huzzah!_ cried the guards, _huzzah! that it is dead!_

Little matter, that several were injured; little matter, that one of the thatches was aflame, the dragon was dead, and the people were reassured that this threat was not so insurmountable. – Little matter, that this had been a small dragon, and rather weaker than the others I had faced: I would let them have their victory, and I too was relieved that the fight was over.

There was just that small business of the soul.

When the light dimmed, in the dragon’s eyes: when its wings sagged definitively, and it crumpled, spent, upon the road – that was when I felt it, felt the dregs of its forces begin to assault me, felt its life and death, and saw them, was perfectly overwhelmed. The excitement of battle had not yet left me, when I was filled with this self that was not mine, when even in the midst of my tension I lost myself and all that I felt –

And the dragon soul took me over, and my mind erupted with the knowledge it had possessed, I was not myself, but there was a thread of the self, somewhere beneath, crushed; and in this battle of minds – as was becoming so inconveniently frequent – with the guards shouting _Dragonborn!,_ with Mirabelle’s voice of concern, quiet – the outer self was abandoned, and though I clutched desperately at the last mists before me, I felt blackness overcome me, and collapsed.


	3. Destiny and Porridge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Julienne and Marcurio read the books which Urag gave them, and find them quite unhelpful

The vapours did not last so long as they had before, but even so, I was so exhausted I could not stand, and so was put to bed. My sleep that night was deep and dreamless: yet it did not refresh me, so much as emphasise what had happened, and I awoke with a pain and a turbulence in my head, and the sensation that I had been taken to pieces, and put back together again.

Marcurio had brought me a bowl of porridge, mixed through with honey – rather, he had been given it to give to me – and finding myself ravenous I devoured it, before I even spoke to him beyond a greeting. He waited for me to finish, sitting perched upon the edge of the bed, and at length said:

‘Mirabelle was asking after you: says you can stay as long as you need.’

The offer was generous, and much as I did not want to exploit the hospitality of Winterhold, I felt that I rather needed a day in bed, and another few bowls of that marvellous porridge. I told Marcurio so, and he laughed.

‘Took some effort to get them to let _me_ have honey,’ said he: ‘the chef was fawning over you, really fawning. _Poor little dear,_ she said, _needs something nice and sweet and warm._ – _I shall remind you,_ said I, _that I fought the dragon as well._ – She gave me the honey but she didn’t seem quite so happy about it.’

I smiled at his good-humoured indignation. ‘I imagine it’s hard to come by, up here.’

Mirabelle herself put in an appearance a short while later, apologising for the interruption; she had insisted on my rest, but I asked that she bring the books which we had been given yesterday. There was little point in sitting idle: and even if my own mind was beyond reading words upon a page, for the moment, Marcurio did not seem in quite such a state, and might read them aloud to me.

An idea at which he smiled and nodded, when Mirabelle said that she would do as I wished; when she turned, and left the room; when she returned, with the two volumes; but which he bemoaned, when he opened the book to begin reading, even as he embarked upon the first lines.

‘ _Imagine living beneath the waves with a strong-sighted blessing of most excellent fabric_ ,’ he read: ‘ _h_ _olding the fabric over your gills_...’

Then, glancing over the rest of the page:

‘There is not a single sentence in this which makes sense.’

‘Let me see.’

He was perfectly correct. It was the Septimus Signus text, and I immediately doubted all of my previous assumptions that he was some eminent Imperial scholar: whatever meaning the book might have held, was not lost in pretentiousness, as some academic texts, but in a sheer wall of convoluted metaphor, diversion and ultimately a form of written indecipherable madness. My headache returned in spades, as I read the first couple of pages, and I had to hand it back to Marcurio and ask that he try to read further, to see if it started to mean anything later on.

‘I feel I shall understand it,’ he said valiantly, after a few more minutes’ scrutiny, ‘if I only look at it more closely, and a few more times over –’

‘It isn’t the _Imperial_ _Journal of Mysticism Studies_ ,’ said I: ‘you are being rather overconfident.’

He took a little affront at the comment, but managed to overcome it, and picked up the other book.

‘Oh!’ said he: ‘this one is rather better.’

And he began to read it to me, and I caught the tone of a treatise – rather than a rambling – and was reassured. – My reassurance diminished, when Marcurio glanced at the rest of the treatise halfway through, and announced:

‘It is in much the same vein all the way through. I am not sure this will be useful. It is only about how people read Elder Scrolls. How the Moth Priests train.’

‘Well, we are going to be required to – read an Elder Scroll –’

‘If you know nothing about the Elder Scrolls,’ said he, ‘then according to this, reading one will have no effect, and will make about as much sense as – well, the Signus book.’

‘But it will have an effect at the Time Wound,’ said I: ‘that is what Paarthurnax said. I don’t think – it does not matter if I am versed in the Elder Scrolls or not. It’s a point in time, a... a fixed phenomenon –’

‘Hmm. But this doesn’t bring us any closer to _finding_ the Scroll.’

‘Perhaps we should ask the librarian.’

‘Well, he said himself that this was all he could give us.’

‘He... he might know someone else who knows more... maybe... maybe one of these authors is still alive.’

‘That seems a desperate hope.’

‘You’re being very... very _cynical_ , Marcurio.’

He didn’t have to say anything, just looked at me and placed an already-gloved hand upon mine. – He was still salty that we had not gone back to Cyrodiil, and to his surprisingly beloved Arcane University. – And I too was feeling as if we were going after a lost cause, up here at the edge of the world, searching answers to impossible questions in a short treatise and an incomprehensible scrawl of a book. But though I wanted to give in to the same sentiment as Marcurio, I yet had the memories of yesterday in my mind, and if nothing else – if _nothing_ else – I wanted all of this to be over, as quickly as possible, that I might return to normality and obscurity.

And one cannot finish a task, without first attempting it –

‘If it’s my destiny to do this,’ said I, only half in jest: ‘then we’ll find something.’

‘Very well,’ said he: ‘I shall ask Urag if he knows anything else, which he did not tell us yesterday.’

And he left the room, and I lay back in contemplation of life, and destiny, and most particularly the ceiling. – We _would_ find the answers we sought, surely? – We had to, we had to, for Skyrim’s sake, and for ours!


End file.
